All Change
by SoloWraith
Summary: The girl shouldn't have been his problem—but that's how it was turning out, and now he was starting to feel responsible for her future. (Set around the end of S2, in the aftermath of Charlestown under attack, with some differences in order to focus on the characters of Billy and Abigail.)
1. Numb

Charlestown was burning.

Ash was everywhere, floating through windows whose buildings were empty of occupants—those who had earlier fled in terror, scattering in the streets seeking safety from the cannons and gunshot. It drifted through the upstairs windows of the governor's mansion, where Lord Peter's daughter Abigail sat at the pianoforte, picking out the same note over and over again.

Though she trembled, vaguely, with each cannon blast, her finger on the key did not falter.

A man shouted below, near the window, but men had been shouting for most of the afternoon, and Abigail did not move. She held her back straight, aided by the corset pressing against her ribs, and played the note again, fingernails ticking against the ivory. But then came the pounding of feet on the stairs, and she shrank back on the bench, her hand falling from the keys as the room doors were flung open, sending particles of newly settled dust skittering up in a miniature maelstrom.

She gripped the edge of the bench and stared at the revealed intruder. One of Captain Flint's pirates, Billy—the man she'd asked him about only a day or so before. Cutlass in one hand, soot on his face (which bore an expression of angry disbelief), he demanded—"What the hell are you still doing here?"

She was unable to form words into any sensible reply, though she attempted, but all that happened was her mouth opened, soundlessly.

He crossed over to her side and crouched by the bench. She stared into his blue eyes, rapt by the discovery that the initial irritation in them had vanished and only earnestness remained. "Miss Ashe," he said, and his voice was more gentle now. "You can't stay here. It's not safe. Where can I take you?"

"There is nowhere," she answered, and to her horror she felt tears beginning to well up because she had just realized it was true. It was all true, though until now she had, perhaps, been imagining it was a dream, much like her dreams of having been kidnapped. But Miranda Barlow had been murdered, and her own father's actions felt like a betrayal. Her father, who might also be dead. Who might deserve it. "Have you seen my father?"

Billy rose and reached for her hand. "Come with me." It was less command than request, and that made her want to comply—made her feel, ridiculously, as if she would be safe in the company of this strapping outlaw.

Ladies did not take the hands of strange gentlemen; he was no gentleman, but no stranger either, though she'd only known him from the short voyage from Nassau to South Carolina.

He hadn't been rough and loud like the others. His eyes were so innocent; she could perceive no venality in them. Yet he had killed before. How many? She didn't know.

She put her hand, oddly cold on this warm day, into his.

His fingers enclosed hers completely. He gave her a slight, reassuring smile.

She followed as he led the way across the soot-flecked floor and down the curved staircase. At the front door leading to the street he paused, halting in the foyer. "There another way out?"

Abigail mutely pointed down the hall in the direction of the servants' entrance. As they neared the smaller exit, Billy belted his cutlass and withdrew the flintlock, a weapon she'd seen many of his crewmates carrying, before kicking the door outwards. Smoke swept in, and Abigail fumbled for a handkerchief, putting it up to cover her face as they passed through.

His hand was tight around hers as he pulled her along the narrow alley. The surroundings were unfamiliar to her as she had never been allowed to wander alone away from the house, but she could scarcely register anything beyond the piercing light, dust and smoke. He urged her along as fast as she could manage, yet Abigail stumbled often, hampered by her skirts and the heels on new boots never intended for flight.

Billy paused momentarily where two streets met to reveal a glimpse of the sun-glistening harbor water beyond, and the sails of a ship. Abigail suddenly realized what he had in mind. "Where are you taking me?" she said, just to confirm, even as her breath caught in her throat.

"Only place there is," he answered, looking rather desperate. Looking sorry. "Back on board."

"I cannot." Her mind swam, searching for something to cling to, a truth, even just a mere possibility, an alternate suggestion he might accept. A lie? The trouble was she so rarely had the occasion to invent falsehoods for self-preservational purposes, he would see through it the moment she opened her mouth.

"There's nothing left for you here," he said, waiting for her contradiction. When it didn't come, he persisted. "Is there?"

Thudding of soldiers' booted feet came nearer in the aftermath of yet another cannon blast. Billy pulled Abigail into another side street, behind an open shop door shielding them from sight as the others raced past. Swaying, she grabbed his forearms. He held her up effortlessly, one arm pulling her against him while holding the door with his other. With her face against his chest she smelled tar and gun-smoke and warm leather. "Captain'll call me a damn fool," he muttered, barely audibly, once the footsteps had passed out of sound away down the street.

"Look," he added then, over her head. "I'm sorry. Your father—"

"Is he dead?" she whispered.

"Aye." The single syllable was regretful.

She swallowed. She wanted to hide against his chest, behind the door, to trap the sensation of feeling safe just a moment longer. But he was already backing away, leading her into the dusty street.


	2. Change of Plan

_A damn fool_ , Billy thought as he wrapped his hand tight around the girl's and hauled her along behind him towards the water. He wasn't sure the captain would be far off the mark with that assessment either. He'd no idea of ever laying eyes on the governor's daughter again (not that she was hard to look on) once they'd delivered her off the ship and into the hands of her father. No one had. But none of this was playing out like it was supposed to. And he already had more than enough trouble to deal with without re-introducing the girl to the ship; the balance of power had shifted so many times he barely knew who was going to be in charge or what new alliance might have been struck in his absence.

He hadn't come in search of Abigail. He'd only happened to be surveying the aftermath in the square when he'd heard the piano and realized that nobody was supposed to still be up there.

 _Be in a whole lot less difficulty right now if I'd just ignored it and gone about my business_.

Abigail Ashe wasn't his business. Known that, he had, the second they met eyes across the table when she was sitting with the Barlow woman and he'd come to ask the captain for a decision.

 _She's your problem now_ , he imagined Flint saying to him.

That was, if his captain didn't punch him in the face first, then dump him overboard and tell him to swim back to Nassau.

Actually, Billy knew his best hope for getting Abigail stowed back on the ship largely unseen and unmolested rested in the chance that everyone else would be far too busy with their own problems (as he should have been) to notice or care until they had pulled anchor and were sailing south.

Beyond that, he had no idea what he was going to do with her.

Near the jetty now, he swooped the girl over the side of a skiff and slashed at its moorings, shoving the vessel into knee-deep water and climbing aboard himself. Abigail shivered atop the seat while he grabbed the oars and told her to get down in the bottom. But she hesitated, staring at the several inches of rain-slime pooling on the floorboards.

A deafening cannon blast sent water showering in their direction, far too close by. Billy balanced one of the oars across his leg and pushed Abigail down, where she huddled in a heap. As strong an oarsman as he was, he estimated it was going to take a good quarter of an hour to cover the dangerous expanse of water between the ship and the port she was firing on. He set his jaw, positioned the oars and exerted muscle, watching the smoke of Charlestown swallowing the sunlight as the craft surged through the water. Abigail remained motionless in the hull, an arm sheltering her face from view.

By the time they'd reached the ship, a crewmate had spotted their approach and tossed down the rope ladder. Billy had considered he might have to throw Abigail over a shoulder and climb up for the both of them, but she gamely undertook to make her own way, faltering occasionally on the ladder when the wind gusted. He was right behind her on the chance that she slipped, trying not to be impatient with how long it was taking.

His crew member watched them board with amused fascination. "What's this then? Thought we were leaving this pretty face on shore?"

"Plans changed," Billy said, tersely. He helped Abigail off the last rung and over the edge before swinging over himself.

"Captain know about this?" The other man regarded the girl who had sunk momentarily against the boards.

"Not yet. Keep it to yourself." Billy took Abigail's elbow and helped her to her feet. For now, he'd put her in the small cabin Miranda Barlow had occupied. "And if anyone else hears," he added, "she's under my protection. Nobody goes near her, right?"

The other man made a whatever-you-say gesture with his hands and sauntered off. Billy escorted Abigail to the cabin as quickly as possible and showed her in, taking a quick look around. The dead woman's trunks were still sitting by the door, not having been unloaded yet, and the memory of the previous inhabitant lingered heavily in the air as they looked at their surroundings.

He checked the inside bolt on the door and wondered if it was strong enough to keep out anyone determined to get in. He could put a lock on the outside too, but that could be blown off with a pistol. _Might have to sleep on her doorstep if I'm going to keep her safe from this lot._ He hadn't lost any sleep over her on the journey in, but she'd been Flint's concern then, not his.

"I'll bring you something to eat later," he said, thinking aloud now. "Might not be till dark—don't know when I can get back. Don't even know if Captain's aboard ship or not."

Abigail sank down on a chair by the table. Her skirts hung limp and dirty around her legs and he could see her entire body trembling.

He had an instant's doubt he was able to handle this. He didn't know how to look after anyone but himself. What if she got sick?

"Ought to be things you can use," he said, gesturing at the trunks. "Clothes, and such."

She gave him an incredulous stare and murmured, "I couldn't possibly."

"She doesn't have need of them now." It sounded callous, but it was true.

"Besides, they are secured..."

Billy examined the lock on the trunk. The wood was so old he judged it would give way without much difficulty. Employing the appropriate amount of force, he stomped on it with the side of his boot, causing the entire mechanism to fly free from its moorings. "There you are," he said, feeling a little boorish when she wouldn't look at him.

Silence, beyond the noises of the ship around them, and the echoes of the disorder in the port.

"I've got to go," he said, after a few more moments. "Bolt the door and don't let anyone in, understand?"

She nodded, weaving her fingers together in a pathetic attempt to quell their shaking.

He nodded, too, running a hand over his close-cropped head and left her still staring into the shadows of the dim room. He waited outside the door until he heard the bolt slide across, then headed off to find out the status of the rest of the crew and their captain.


	3. In Billy's Hands

After Billy left, and she had obeyed his order to secure the door, Abigail's legs gave way. She sank to the floorboards with a sob of pent-up fear and distaste she'd barely managed to avoid expressing in his presence, but she was alone now and there was no need to hold back.

The light from the one porthole was fading fast, necessitating the lighting of a candle or the lantern soon, but she couldn't move just yet. She drew her knees up, plucking the damp and filthy skirt away from her legs, and leaned back against the solid wood of the door, trying only to breathe, to calm herself with the ritual of inhaling and exhaling.

It worked, for a time. She dozed off into oblivion until a nearby shout and boot-steps going by the cabin roused her into startled awareness again. She pulled herself up and with fingers still shaking, managed to light the lantern on the table, rendering her surroundings visible.

She made herself examine the contents of Miranda Barlow's trunk. It was true what Billy had said about the woman no longer needing them, and this might be all that was available for any imaginable length of time. She found a plain linen dress, much mended, and changed out of her own clothing, feeling her throat tighten as the worn fabric—still retaining sun-dried freshness and the ineffable scent of its true owner—passed over her head.

Now more practically attired, she set aside her discarded dress and sat down on the chair, bringing her hands near the lantern. It wasn't at all cold, but the light was some comfort, however small.

The ship began to creak and move around her. They were departing. Fleeing Charlestown. Returning to Nassau—or, perhaps, ports unknown. She was alone, aboard a vessel of pirates whose captain must certainly be seeking revenge for Mrs. Barlow's murder, committed by one of Abigail's father's men.

She could only imagine how devastated (or enraged) the captain had been made by the betrayal. She desperately wanted the chance to offer some kind of apology but also feared the moment she would have to see his face again. Flint—or Lieutenant McGraw, how to think of him now?—could scarcely be human if he didn't feel the need to exact some kind of retribution. Even if it was only to cast her away out of his sight.

Abigail went to the porthole and peered out, but there was no moon to reflect on the darkness of the water, only the slap of waves crashing against the sides as the ship caught the wind and picked up pace. The darkness unnerved her and she returned to the table.

It seemed much later, though there was no true way of marking how much time had passed, when a knocking at the door stirred her out of her thoughts again. For a moment she turned her head to stare at the bolt, fearing it was the captain calling for her, fearing it wouldn't hold if someone tried to break through.

"Miss Ashe? It's Billy. I've brought some food."

She had no appetite, but when he had gone to the trouble it seemed churlish to send him away. She slid back the bolt and opened the door the width of two fingers, peering out before letting him in.

He went over to the table and set down the offerings. "It's not much," he said. "Things are a bit...slipshod at the moment."

She didn't know how to respond to that. Did he want her to commiserate? Or perhaps press for more information? Finally she said, "It was kind of you to bring something."

"You're not a prisoner, Miss Ashe."

"Am I not?" she murmured, coming to stand by the table.

"No. You're a guest. As you were on the way in."

"My situation has vastly changed."

He leaned over to adjust the lantern so that it burned more brightly.

"Specifically," she continued, "I lack a chaperone, and the guarantee of the captain's protection."

He gave her a sideways glance. "You're under my protection."

"I...I don't doubt your good intent," she said, flustered.

"My ability then?"

"No." In confusion she dropped her gaze again.

"I spoke to Captain Flint," Billy said, after a few moments.

"And?"

"He's leaving the matter in my hands. Will you eat?" He pulled the chair out for her. The gesture was so familiar and yet so oddly out of place that she didn't know for a moment whether to treat it seriously or not. _They are men, not monsters_ , she reminded herself, _they have not forgotten everything to do with civilized society_ , and she drew Mrs. Barlow's skirt around her, inclined her head and sat.

The empty chair across from her seemed accusing, as he stood behind her almost in the manner of a servant, and she twisted around suddenly and found herself saying, "Won't you sit?"

He took the opposite chair, started to turn it around backwards and then checked the motion and sat down properly, clearing his throat.

Wanting to put him at ease, she asked, "Have you already dined?"

"Hadn't time," he said, with unabashed candor.

Abigail unwrapped the packet to reveal flat biscuits, hard as rock and a slab of what appeared to be dried meat. It brought to mind the sustenance offered to her as a prisoner in the fort (a memory she'd not wanted so soon revived) but she summoned up resolve and smiled. At least now she was not alone in the dark.

"You must share with me. Please. I couldn't possibly eat by myself." The truth lay somewhere between her lack of appetite and feeling guilty that he had not yet eaten. She offered him one of the biscuits and put another to her own mouth, nibbling at its edges.

He shrugged a little, and smiled back then, and they ate together in a strangely convivial silence. Out of habit, she kept her gaze modestly lowered, as she would when her father brought gentlemen guests to dinner in the mansion. When the food was done, she rose. He stood up also, so abruptly that he knocked his chair over, and she couldn't help but flinch; he was so tall and such a physical presence in the small space of the cabin.

"Sorry," he mumbled, righting the chair. "Getting late. You must want to sleep."

Abigail knew she would lie in the hammock for some time before the blessing of sleep, but she murmured an agreement.

"Tomorrow," she said, following him to the door, "I would like to take some air on the deck."

He glanced back at her, doubt creasing his forehead.

"If I may," she added, the veiled hint towards their earlier exchange about being a guest and not a prisoner.

Billy, hand on the door, hesitated an instant too long. "I'll come for you in the morning." She read the unspoken request in his eyes that she not go out of her own accord.

Abigail inclined her head. When he had gone, she bolted the door. The cabin felt cold. She looked through the trunk and found a knitted shawl of Mrs. Barlow's which she brought to the hammock with her, wrapping it around herself like a blanket. But sleep, as she had predicted, did not come quickly. Abigail lay awake curled in the bed of rope, lulled by its steady swinging as the vessel coursed over the water, wondering how she could have returned so soon to all this she had thought to leave behind.

She tensed whenever boots thudded past the cabin door or distant hollered directives disturbed the silence, and it was some time—likely well past the middle of the night—before she was able to relax enough to sink into slumber.


	4. Complications

Though Billy, along with the rest of the crew, was listening as the captain apprised them of the events that had occurred ashore, his eye was on the rigging. A sloppy knot, while most often only the difference between safety and injury, could also be the difference between life and death. Whatever else was going on, it was even more important—at least as far as Billy was concerned—to pay attention to the small details.

He squinted against the morning light, meaning to climb up himself and check the knots (sooner, rather than later) when he became aware that Flint had stopped talking.

He glanced over and followed the gazes of the other men to the spot on deck where Abigail Ashe had made a timid appearance.

Even in plainer borrowed clothing and a shawl shrouding her form, she was a noticeable distraction, causing all of them to stare at her in silence.

How many of them no longer considered her valuable treasure, but a symbol of her father's betrayal, as she must be to Flint, at least, if not the rest of the men who might not fully understand what had taken place back in Charleston?

Billy drew in a half-breath and held it for a few counts. No one spoke. He shot a quick look at his captain, but the other man's face displayed its habitual self-control.

Trying to replicate a similar lack of expression, Billy swung down from the upper portion of the deck and approached Abigail with casual speed. She started to give him the beginnings of a smile. He took her elbow and turned her in the other direction, guiding her away from the others.

The sea was blue and benign and he gazed out over it, avoiding looking at her because he would see the innocence in her eyes and feel guilty for being angry. She didn't mean to cause trouble for him, he knew that. Didn't mean it wasn't happening anyway. Didn't mean she wasn't putting him in an awkward position with the captain and the rest of the crew.

He thought, not for the first time, that all he wanted to be responsible for were his duties aboard ship. The men often gave him a hard time about how he was the only one who never got involved with any of the brothel girls. Well, there was a reason for that, wasn't there? Women just represented distractions, entanglements, complications.

He liked things that were simple and made sense. The expectations of his job.

Not things like black-lashed brown eyes without a hint of cynicism—he'd looked, dammit—and the way she was hanging on to his arm right now, even after he'd let hers go.

She was a lady, no matter what her circumstances were now. He was a pirate.

He'd always be a pirate.

 _What the hell am I thinking any of this for?_

"I know you asked me to wait until you came," Abigail said, "but I had such a headache, cooped up below."

Any irritation he might still have felt evaporated. "I didn't forget about you," he said. "The captain was explaining what happened yesterday."

"Oh." Her voice was small. "I am sorry if it was a bad time to come up."

"It's all right." He cast a look over his shoulder. Flint had moved on and several of the men were conversing about them but it didn't seem ill-natured. Billy steered Abigail further down the deck where they weren't in full view of the others.

"I would ask a question," she said, wrapping the shawl more tightly around her shoulders against the strong sea wind. "Mr..." She hesitated. "May I address you by your Christian name? William?" She blushed a little.

"Billy," he said with a smile. "It's what everyone calls me."

Abigail ducked her head.

"Was that the question?" he said, wanting to put her at ease.

"No, I—I was wondering, in fact, if you would elaborate on the conversation you had with the captain? About me...about my situation."

He recalled the previous evening:

 _Flint regarded him from behind the captain's desk, hand hovering near a well-filled glass of first-class liquor, and said tersely,"Mind if I ask what the fuck you're planning on doing with her, Billy?"_

 _He shouldn't have been unprepared for that question, especially coming from a man who disliked ambiguity as much as Flint did. But he struggled with an answer. And perhaps he'd been tossing the idea around in his head, but it only came to light at that moment when he answered—with some diffidence—"I thought she might be able to stay in the late Mrs. Barlow's house..." He paused, searching the older man's face for any indication that he should not continue along such lines but Flint merely studied him for a moment._

 _"You think that's a good idea?"_

 _Flint had a habit of posing such questions in a manner that left the person needing to answer unsure whether or not it was rhetorical._

 _Billy hesitated a couple of heartbeats longer._ _"I don't know if it's good," he said then, compelled to be truthful, "but I think it's the best one I have."_

 _"Well, until you come up with a better one," Flint said, "you won't hear any opposition from me."_

 _Though he sounded rather curt and dismissive, Billy was grateful—he'd had no alternative plan in place if the other man had refused to entertain the suggestion. He thanked the the captain, but was hailed when he would have turned away._

 _Flint warned,"I won't tolerate this keeping you long from your duties. Aboard ship or ashore."_

 _He dipped his head acknowledging he understood; relieved, yet disturbed by the relative ease with which the proposal had been granted._

Abigail delicately cleared her throat, reminding him that he'd been silent too long. There was a pause while she waited for him to share his thoughts and he gazed resolutely at her hair tossing in the wind in order not to meet her eyes. Then he said, "We should find you something to eat. It's already mid-day."

They found Randall in the galley peeling potatoes for inclusion into a dubious stew and who looked askance at Billy when he inquired about the possibility of anything more palatable for the lady's consideration, even while she was urging him not to go to any trouble.

"Never complained before," Randall said to Abigail, digging out a black spot on the potato with a rather savage turn of his knife.

"And I'm not now," Billy assured him, "only Miss Ashe is not used to our kind of food, and I don't want her to get sick—"

"Now my food makes people sick?"

Abigail was looking alarmed.

"Randall, calm yourself," Billy soothed, and Abigail added, "I'm sure it's delicious..."

The old cook looked somewhat mollified, and repeated—"Delicious"—in Billy's direction.

They sat and had some of the stew, which to Billy's relief was not as bad as it looked, all the while with Randall muttering in the background about it being too late for the noon meal, and did everybody just think they could come in and help themselves whenever they liked it, lady or no lady, what kind of way was that to run a ship, and something about chickens.

Both of them valiantly ignored him and Abigail even bade Randall thanks on the way out (which Billy thought evidence of good sense on her part since it likely meant her food would remain uncontaminated for the rest of the journey. All the crew liked Randall, but they also knew the methods he had for dealing with anyone of whom he disapproved.)

After leaving the galley, they took the air on deck for as long as Billy dared, which wasn't any length of time at all because he didn't want it to be the subject of discussion among the crew, good-natured or otherwise. Abigail accepted his guidance back to the cabin without protest, only asking him if he would come again later, and he said he would.


	5. Out of Place

On the docks of Nassau, Abigail watched Billy lift the trunk of Miranda's—which she herself had barely been able to shift across the floor—easily to his shoulder. The rest of the crew had already disembarked earlier that afternoon, and it was now wearing on to evening.

She followed him down the length of the wharf where it met the beach, realizing she still had no idea where she was meant to spent the night or, for that matter, the following days. Nervousness tightened in her stomach again, though she was beginning to admit to herself that as long as Billy was taking charge of her she felt safe.

Nassau was not a place she'd thought ever to see again—and yet she'd seen little enough of it, having been imprisoned in the fort the whole time. She gazed at her surroundings in the street while Billy exchanged words and coin with a carter and then proceeded to load her trunk in back of the conveyance. He took her hand to help her up into the cart.

The light was dying, bathing the buildings in a reddish hue as they left the town. Profuse greenery, some flowering and some fruit-bearing, lined the sides of the road.

The horse plodded along, in no apparent hurry. Billy threw Abigail an apologetic look sideways. "This could take a while."

"Where are we going?"

"I have a place in mind you can stay."

Abigail gripped the rough edges of the cart bench, trying to maintain proper posture. She kept jostling against Billy's arm, but it was either that, or lean forward and grip the low rail in front of them, too far forward to be done without becoming ridiculous. She had never ridden in an open cart like this one; her father had owned a closed carriage.

She swallowed against the dusty dryness in her throat, suddenly feeling very vulnerable. Night was approaching, and a pirate was conducting her into the lush jungle away from town—which, no matter how fallen, represented the safety of society—to a place unknown.

Yet she trusted him, even on the short length of their acquaintance. She had known that for a while. Since he'd reached for her hand while she sat at the piano. Perhaps even since the very first moment she had seen him aboard ship, when he had paused in mid-sentence coming to speak to his captain and caught her eye.

It didn't make any kind of sense, but there it was.

She pressed against Billy's arm now; warm, solid, familiar, the muscles shifting against hers when he applied the reins to the horse's back. He didn't say anything, or presume on the contact.

Before long, perhaps half of an hour, he turned the horse off the main road—itself little more than a beaten path—onto a side trail, which passed by a garden and ended in a clearing.

The darkened house visible beyond the fence was deserted.

Abigail realized that she had been expecting perhaps just such a dwelling, but one alight with the glow of candles and smoke from the chimney, occupied by a sympathetic farmer's wife with a child or two staring behind her aprons. A bowl of hot food would be forthcoming, and then a quiet bed to retire to. That was what she now knew she thought Billy had been bringing her to. His own sister's family, perhaps, or an aunt, a grandmother—someone he trusted, someone she would grow to trust.

She realized the hope and loss of all these things in the passage of a few quick moments while she stared at the uninhabited house and knew, like the trunk that was now hers, it had belonged to Miranda Barlow.

Billy swung down from the cart and reached for her hand. Abigail put it in his as she had become accustomed, no longer unused to the feel of his warm fingers on hers.

"I'll get a fire going for you," he said, squeezing her hand a moment longer than necessary. "Won't take long."

While he went inside, she remained behind, standing on the path of flagstones. Was this all to become known to her, each darkened indiscriminate shape, the cornstalks like looming figures in the garden, the glint of moonlight on the low roof; would it all become as familiar to her as her piano bench, the carved posts on the staircase, the gilt edging along the mirror in her bedroom?

She waited until she saw a light within, and Billy's shadow through the window as he found candles, and then she tried to re-frame the moment of their arrival again, as if this was the first time she had seen the house. Foolish perhaps, but it gave her the courage to move along the path and to the front door.

On first glance, the interior seemed to have been left in an immaculate state. That was a relief. It was very austere, with bare whitewashed walls and only a few pieces of cloth-draped furniture remaining. _Miranda must have never planned on returning_. Abigail stood in the doorway, looking, still unable to come in completely, even though Billy's promised fire blazed in the kitchen hearth and candles glimmered from sconces on the walls.

He came towards the door and there was a moment of awkwardness when she did not want to step in, but could not retreat, and finally she turned sideways, allowing him past. He stared down at her as they both lingered over the sill for a moment.

Then he went out to the cart to bring in her trunk. Abigail slipped in, accepting the necessity of staying—at least for this night, though she could not see further into the future than that.

She sat down one of of the chairs at the table near the door.

Billy brought in the trunk, disappeared down the hall with it and returned. "I put it in the—" he thumbed over his shoulder "—bedroom."

She nodded. She meant to say thank you but she only mouthed it.

He rubbed the back of his neck. "You'll have food," he said. "Captain said the garden's producing. Soil's good here."

Food was the least of her concerns. Though she would have given a great deal at that moment for a cup of hot tea, served to her by Billy's nonexistent relative with the same kind blue eyes. Abigail swallowed back the pressure building in her throat.

He was watching her now with some uncertainty, as if he was beginning to have doubts about this relocation.

She wanted to set his mind at ease. If only she were a different woman; stronger, with some—with _any_ —practical skills and knowledge. Someone who could announce, with false confidence if not true, that she would be fine—that she was quite able to look after herself, that he could return to his ship and need not give her a further thought.

If only she had learned to lie like that.

"Wish you'd say something," he said, plainly.

She dropped her gaze and stared at the tabletop.

Billy crossed over to the hearth and crouched in front of it. He laid another piece of wood on top of the tidily burning blaze and said without looking back at her, "Don't leave sight of the house at day. At night you keep the door bolted. Do you hear me? I'll come back to check on you, when I can. Bring supplies, chop some more firewood. Do whatever needs doing."

Abigail felt her sight blur. She continued to stare with fierce resolve at the table. _He is leaving. He is already gone. I am alone._ She thought she might choke with need.

Billy straightened to his full considerable height. Came and stood behind her chair for a moment.

She listened to him breathe.

"Right," he muttered, and started for the still-open doorway.

 _Billy, don't leave._

She must have spoken the words aloud, because he halted.

She twisted to look at him. "Please."

"Abigail..?" He said her name with quiet reverent curiosity, needing, she knew, considerably more in the way of explanation than she could offer.

"Don't go tonight."

It sounded so demanding. What if he had no choice? What if he left anyway? What if he thought she meant _more_ than she meant?

For the space of a few long heartbeats they stared at each other. Then he said, "I have to unhitch the horse."

The prosaic confession of duty made her whole body feel warm with relief; the reprieve was granted, however temporarily. She rose then, while he went out. He was gone long enough that by the time he returned she felt calmer. She had investigated the bedroom—the bed still had its straw-tick mattress—to whose privacy she could retire later, and there was a built-in cabinet bed near the kitchen hearth.

She had forgotten about the need for water and was grateful to see him come in with a bucket drawn from the well.

Billy pulled two of the chairs away from the table and brought them in front of the hearth. Though the night wasn't cold, the fire gave them something to look at. They both sat.

The awkwardness settled again.

Timidly she inquired, "Will it be a problem to be away from your ship?"

"Captain told me I didn't need to be back tonight," he said.

She wasn't sure what to make of that. She played with the fabric of her skirt, still rough and unfamiliar, used as she was to finer textures of lace and silk. The fire crackled, encouraging her to speak again, now that there was time, now that he wasn't leaving. Though she wasn't sure if he was angry. He didn't seem so, but she didn't know how to read men very well. She watched him out of the corner of her eyes, noting the several days' worth of blond stubble along his jawline, the golden hairs on his forearms catching the firelight as he leaned forwards, arms on knees.

She wanted to know about his family, beyond the unfortunate tale she'd heard from the captain. But perhaps he didn't like to talk about that. Perhaps, like she, he had no living relatives. Probably it was foolish of her to have assumed he was bringing her to stay with some of them. Pirates were hardly known for their family connections. Impulsively she said, "I wish you would tell me—" and hesitated at the last moment. "Stories about your...travels."

The corner of his mouth quirked. He reached down and scooped up a bit of fallen bark from the floor, tossing it back into the hearth with unerring accuracy. "Not sure any of them are fit for a lady's ears." He spoke with more seriousness than sarcasm, as he was wont to do.

"I am not sure I am a lady now," Abigail murmured, not in search of sympathy but because she really did not know. What was she? What did being Governor Lord Ashe's daughter mean when he was dead and she was left to fend for herself on a remote island in the Bahamas? Very little. She could not see that she was of any value to anyone any longer. This was a good thing, probably, because it meant no one would be interested in seeking a ransom, and she would be left alone.

To putter about an abandoned country house and toil in a garden under the sun for her food.

She heaved a small sigh. Possibly she did feel sorry for herself after all.

"You can't change what you're born to," he said.

Whether he was talking about her, or himself, it didn't sound bitter, so she tried, "Were you born to—your life?"

After a pause he said, "I suppose I was."

"Don't you think a man can make something different of himself?"

"Different than what?"

"Than what he has become."

"Maybe. Maybe not." Billy leaned back and stretched an arm behind his head, pulling his elbow down. "You tired?"

Abigail nodded—although she wasn't, particularly, it seemed only normal that when such a suggestion was made, the polite choice was to agree. She rose, and said, "Good night."

"I'll stay up a while," he said, and the words were comfort. She was able to smile, before backing away towards the bedroom.


	6. Leaving

_A/N: Shorter chapter - the next will be more substantial._

* * *

Accustomed to brief shifts of sleep aboard ship, Billy woke well before sunrise. He lay still for a while, analyzing the unusual feeling of there being no immediate need to do anything, and listening. It was very quiet.

He rose then, stretching, and helped himself to a long drink of water from the bucket. He'd slept only in trousers, having found it too hot in the house. The air was sultry, like a damp caress on his bare skin, and smelled unfamiliarly of earth and wood-smoke, used as he was to the salty ocean breeze.

His empty stomach reminded him they'd taken no sustenance since yesterday's noon meal while still at sea, so he went outdoors to investigate the possibilities in the garden. It had been abandoned only in the past week since the Barlow woman had left, and most of the plots were producing abundantly; corn, sweet potatoes, and a variety of other edibles. Crouching, Billy sifted a handful of night-cool soil through his fingers, considering.

The captain hadn't appeared overly concerned by the prospect of Abigail starving out here on her own. Billy didn't know whether the girl could cook—more than likely not, considering her upbringing—but he meant to provide food supplies from town next time he came in. Whenever _that_ would be. He would scarcely be able to manage regular absences from the ship and still keep his job. Easier for him if there had been somewhere for Abigail to stay in Nassau itself, but her going unnoticed there would have been impossible. At least here, out of the way, she stood a chance of—well, he wasn't sure. Becoming a respectable farmer's wife or something of the sort.

Not that he wanted that particularly. In fact the thought made him feel an unexpected and uncomfortable stab of possessiveness—he wasn't sure there was anyone on the island good enough to be her husband—but better someone was looking after her than not.

He dug a little deeper into the soil with his hands, unearthing some of the potatoes, and then pulled weeds between rows for a while until the sun came up. He brought the potatoes to the kitchen where he washed and set them to bake by the hearth, sparing one to eat raw while he worked. He'd had worse breakfasts. Whistling, Billy scraped ashes into a pan and tossed them outside, brought the horse a few ears of corn, and found a broom to sweep the floor.

Abigail appeared from down the hallway, her shawl wrapped around her shoulders and her hair in tangled curls. Blinking, she murmured a good morning.

"Hungry?" he said. "Come and eat."

"I...I didn't know you could cook."

"Well, I can't really, but Randall's been ill a time or two and somebody had to step in." He delivered some potatoes and fresh greens to a tin plate and put it on the table.

Abigail still stood, so he pulled out a chair and held it out for her to sit, as he'd done aboard ship.

A flush appeared high on her cheekbones. "You...you are not wearing any—"

He glanced down at himself. Trousers. Just no shirt. He'd forgotten to put it back on. Of course, she had never sat down to a meal with anyone half-dressed before. Mildly chagrined, he found where he'd stripped the article off the night before and slipped it back over his head, before going back and holding her chair again.

Cheeks still rosy, Abigail came now and sat down. "Thank you."

He sat down himself, backwards on the chair the way he liked, and they breakfasted together. The potatoes tasted better cooked.

Billy peeled the skin off the last one and bit into its warm flesh. He was aware that Abigail was watching him and realized she was wondering when he meant to take his leave.

Best to get it over with fast, like any unpleasant duty, pulling a tooth or sawing a limb off a wounded shipmate. He swallowed the last bite of potato and stared at the tabletop for a moment before looking up at her.

"Get any sleep?"

"Yes," she said, barely audibly. She was twisting her fingers together in her lap.

"I have to go."

"I know." But she wouldn't meet his eyes.

"Promise to stay near the house and keep it locked, like I said."

She nodded obediently. He had the urge to take and still her hands with his own, but instinct told him not to touch her; it didn't seem right to take liberties at the moment of parting. He got to his feet, pushed the chair back against the table, and walked to the door.

"I'll come when I can." He meant it, but the assurance felt hollow, held up against the uncertainty in her face.

But Abigail opened the door for him. He appreciated that moment of bravery. As if she already lived here.

"Goodbye," she said, trying to smile, not quite succeeding.

He fought the desire, again, to take hold of her. _She's not yours, Billy, she doesn't want to be touched, not by you anyway_.

It felt wrong, leaving, even though it was what he had to do; hitching the horse back to the cart and swinging up in it, sparing a quick glance over his shoulder as they rolled out of the courtyard.

Abigail lingered momentarily by the doorway before slipping back inside.

He directed his attention on the dusty path ahead and for the length of the journey back into town tried, unsuccessfully, to put her out of his thoughts.


	7. Rain

Abigail awoke the second night in a sweat. Though the weather had been far too warm for a big fire, she had laid enough wood on to keep it burning till morning, terrified of the light going out. Curled up in the cabinet bed in the kitchen, she opened her eyes wide, fearful both of silence and of sounds. It was too much like her imprisonment, despite the comfortable household trappings around; she was locked in, alone, deserted. She could whisper or scream, no one would hear her, no one would come. Or worse still, someone _would_ come.

That first day, the time had gone without much reckoning. She had ventured out to get water from the well for drinking and washing, then scuttled back indoors. She had noticed the spinet and a shelf of books but lacked the enthusiasm to pursue either distraction. Mostly she had sat, after tidying the kitchen and washing a few pieces of clothing, and dreaded the coming night. Which came slowly and seemed to last twice as long as the daylight hours.

In Mrs. Barlow's desk, Abigail found paper and ink and began to keep a journal of sorts, though she didn't know the actual dates. She wrote only two sentences on the first day, the day Billy left: _He said he will come when he can. I don't know if I should try to forget that promise, or look forward to it._

 _Day 2. It is true there is plenty of food in the garden, though some of it is unfamiliar and I do not know how, or whether, I should cook it. I tried some sort of spicy root vegetable today, and I spotted fruit, farther from the house. I daresay I shall not starve. In any case, I do not have much appetite._

 _Day 3. There was a child on the main road today, peering down the laneway at me; I called out to him, but he ran off._

 _Day 4. Today I was able to play the spinet for a little, and read in the afternoon while sitting on the front veranda. The weather has been brilliantly sunny and despite my uncertainty over the future I find I sleep better when I have been more outside. I continue to experiment with the garden foods, though I left something too long in the pot by the hearth yesterday and scorched it. The house still smells._

 _Day 5. It is so hot at nights, but I have not learned how to sleep in the dark and do not know if I will ever be able to. I wake up and my throat is like a desert. And I am having troubled dreams again._

 _Day 6. The pastor's wife came today. She startled me so. She seemed very shocked to discover I was living here alone. For my part, I didn't quite know how to behave or what to say. Perhaps I ought to have told her I was widowed. She asked so many questions it made my head hurt after all the silence. I was vague in my answers, and she did not stay very long, but she promised to bring me some food. I gave out as though I have everything I need, but I long for a piece of bread, or for anything that does not come out of the garden._

 _Day 7. Though there was plenty of wood piled when we first came, I have been burning so much there is only a little left. I found an axe but I fear I will injure myself if I attempt to chop a tree...but tomorrow I must try. Otherwise at night there will only be candles. Thankfully, there are still plenty of those, and I don't need the fire for heat, only for light and cooking._

 _I wish I had learned something, anything, that would help me in this new life. How to make a fire, how to cook, how to mend clothing._

 _Day 8. I will admit it, I thought he would have been back by now. That he has not makes me wonder if I should not disregard his order to stay at the house. If something has happened—serious or otherwise—to delay his return, I will need to go in to town. Of course there is no money, but there are things of value here I can trade for what I need._

On the ninth day, the weather, which up until that point had been serene and sunny, turned foul. Abigail awoke to the patter of rain on the rooftop, and the fire smoked to such an extent that she was forced to let it go out by early afternoon.

She paced in the damp dullness of the main room. It would be impossible to venture into town unless the weather turned fine again, and she had no idea if this sudden change was a temporary aberration or following a longer-term seasonal pattern. Fretfully, she walked up and down the hallway, the sound of her boots a welcome aural distraction from the otherwise steady dripping of the rain.

Fortunately she had picked fruit the day before and there was no need to go out in search of further sustenance. The water in the bucket was also drawn from yesterday, and she wouldn't need more right away.

As with each day so far, she had come to the moment in the day where the lack of any marked need or clear task to accomplish made time seem to come to a complete, agonizing standstill.

She could imagine the grandfather clock from back home in her head. _Tick. Tick. Tick_. But now it was only the rain. Drip. Drip. Drip. Each one bringing the grey day closer to black night.

Abigail sat down at the spinet, hoping that music might calm her, or at least drown out the rain. But her soot-streaked fingers were stiff and her fingernails black with garden soil. She took herself to the bucket to wash them, pouring out some water into the basin and rubbing her skin over and over until it began to ache. And still they didn't come clean.

Making a sound of frustration—the closest she could come to expressing an improper sentiment—she dumped the water out the window, and, looking out into the grey outdoors, spotted motion. A horse and rider were approaching.

The basin slipped from her fingers, clattering out onto the stones below, and for an instant panic overtook her— _what if it's not Billy, but a stranger?_ But it was he, his height led her to recognition as they drew closer.

Abigail shuttered the window and withdrew, momentarily frozen—uncertain if she should run to him the way instinct ordered, or do something more in line with social standards. Sit, perhaps, at the table, and wait for his knock. But this seemed ridiculous, and she went to the door and flung it open. Billy, already in the courtyard, dismounted and tied the horse by the tree, slung sacks over his shoulder and reached the front porch in a few strides.

Despite his long jacket he was clearly soaked through, and the expression on his face suggested he was uncertain of what reception he might get. Until that moment she hadn't known what she was going to do when he got close, either, but when he paused in front of her, nothing seemed more instinctively right than to throw her arms around him, she was so glad.

He took a step back. "Abigail, I'm—"

 _Dripping with rain—_ she could feel it seeping into her dress—but she didn't care. She hung on, and after a few seconds he let the parcels he was holding fall and put a tentative arm around her, his elbow against the back of her neck. Beyond the wet of his clothes he felt warm and hard and comforting and human. Too soon he was tipping her chin back and asking, blue eyes earnest and concerned, if she was all right. She nodded, afraid her voice would crack with speaking. She let her arms fall, belatedly, and backed into the house.

He came in, bringing in the bags and closing the door after him, shutting out the rain, then glanced past her at the hearth. "Thought you'd have the fire going on a day like this."

She wrung her hands. "I couldn't—it smoked so, and I couldn't get it to burn again." The admission of what he must surely consider to be abysmal ineptitude was humiliating, and she felt tears starting in her eyes. Tears that had threatened to come several occasions before in the past days but which she had always quelled.

"It's all right," he said. "I'll show you."

She followed him to the hearth, running knuckles under her eyelids. "And then I was afraid to run out of wood, there is hardly anything left to that pile." She indicated the remaining stack.

"How'd you manage to go through a month's worth of..." His voice trailed away. He took off his coat and hung it over the back of a chair. The following silence was not condemning but she nearly wailed, "I had to—so I wouldn't be in the dark at night."

He crouched to attend the fire, using a candle from the table to re-light the charred pieces. "All right," he said at last. "It doesn't matter. I'll chop more tomorrow. I'll chop you a forest of trees...Abigail...stop crying." He came round to her and took her hands. "Have you had enough to eat? I brought some food from town."

Hauling a second chair close to the hearth, he seated her, then brought his things to the table and dumped them out, unwrapping two round loaves of crusty bread. She thought nothing had ever looked so delicious, but waited while he put some on a trencher and offered it. She ate the bread with almost sullen gusto, rather vexed by how nicely the flames were leaping up around the wood now with scarcely a puff of smoke.

"I have two nights off the ship," he said. "I thought we could go in to town tomorrow and get whatever you need. Whatever you want."

Her happiness that he was back was shifting to something harder, the realization crystallizing that this too was only a brief alleviation from the monotony of what life here would be. It was that hardness which made her respond, "I have no way to pay for anything."

"You don't have to worry about that."

"I'm not a fool. I do know something about commerce." Abigail sat stiffly upright in the chair. The truth was she had not once in her life exchanged coin for anything in a shop. There had never been a need; her father provided for everything, and trifles had been attended to by her personal maid. Billy didn't have to know this, however.

"See here," he said. "I brought you to this place. I'm responsible for you, right?"

"Not as far as the law is concerned," she said, feeling daring to argue with him. She almost wanted to push him away, now that he was back. Or at least push to see how far he would go.

"If I much cared about the law I'd be in a different line of work," he reminded her. "So don't talk to me about pay. If I had a sister in your position I sure as hell hope someone would be decent enough to look after her without expecting..." he paused for an instant and then finished "—recompense."

Somewhat mollified, Abigail popped the last bite of bread in her mouth.

"Now," he said. "I'm going to dry my shirt by the fire. If you don't mind."

"Please. I've no wish for you to catch cold."

She knew she ought to excuse herself and withdraw, but could not find the will to move from the chair. Her stomach was pleasantly full, the fire was softly crackling, and it was hard not to watch Billy pulling the fabric off his upper body, revealing those rather splendidly muscular shoulders and long lean torso, the sight of which had so embarrassed her at breakfast all those days ago.

"This _rain_ ," she murmured.

"It'll clear tomorrow." He laid his shirt over the hearthstones with the precise motions of a man used to looking after his own things.

"How do you know?" Abigail watched the muscles in his back ripple as he moved.

"Sky," he answered succinctly. He glanced over his shoulder at her and she realized she was staring. She twisted her hands in her lap, self-conscious again.

Outside, it was gradually darkening, rendering the interior dim, with only fire and candle light casting shadows on the walls. Strange how the presence of another person made the arrival of dusk a companionable moment, Abigail thought, when every other night she had dreaded its appearance. _I must determine a way for that not to be so. A way to feel safe and comfortable on my own. To not feel lonely._ She wondered if Billy had felt so, when he was first taken from his parents. She dared not ask, but substituted a different question: "How is your captain handling the loss of...of Mrs. Barlow?"

"Hard to say." Billy had taken a seat in the other chair, within arm's reach of her. "He's not easy to read at the best of times."

"I imagine transparency would be a liability in his position."

"Mm."

"The truth is," she said, speaking clearly although her voice trembled a little, "I feel very sorry about it. I wanted to say so to him, when there was a chance...only I was afraid."

"He doesn't blame you. You have nothing to be sorry for, not when there's your own loss to consider."

This rather indirect reference to her father's death was to avoid causing her further upset, Abigail assumed, but she pressed on, determined to be honest, however it should make him think of her. "But that is also—I feel guilty because—" she shook her head and bit her lip. "I don't _feel_ my loss. I almost think my father deserved it..."

Emotions were so treacherous, and hers had been betraying since his arrival. She felt tears choking her throat again.

He shifted to the edge of his chair and reached out, putting one hand over both of hers, twisted in her lap. He didn't say anything. They sat in silence for a time, and she eventually was able to breathe without that feeling of pressure in her throat.

"Listen," he said.

She looked at him inquiringly.

"Rain's stopped."

And it had, except for the occasional drip from the roof's edge.

She took a breath and let it out as a sigh of relief.


	8. To Town

The morning dawned bright, holding in its early warmth the promise of a hot day. Billy rose well before Abigail (she'd slept in her room and he'd slept in the bed that smelled like her, nothing identifiable but something sort of distantly pleasant, like flowers or soap) and laid out breakfast. There was more bread, and he had brought tea leaves to boil in water over a small cooking fire, which he soon let go out due to the heat in the kitchen.

He went to feed and water the horse, then to inspect the garden's progress in the days he'd been gone. Abigail had evidently been trying to care for it, though he could spot plenty of places where she hadn't known the difference between a weed and a plant. Billy picked up a hoe and began to work the dirt, turning up soil still sodden from yesterday's rains.

Before long he noticed someone coming up the lane; a bonneted, cloaked female bearing a basket in her linked arms. Billy leaned on the hoe and watched her approach. She stopped when she saw him, her face now revealed as middle-aged, and squinted suspiciously into the sun.

"Morning," Billy said.

"I am looking for Miss Ashe," the woman answered in a high, wary tone.

"She's still in bed."

He didn't think this was a particularly shocking observation but the woman's eyes widened. "I am Mrs. Lambrick, the pastor's wife. She led me to believe she was here alone. Unattended. I brought her some things."

"I'll give them to her," Billy offered, holding out a hand.

She clutched the basket to her chest. "Who are you?"

"My name's Billy."

Her head tilted. "Are you a relative of Miss Ashe's?"

Clearly, she wanted him to answer in the affirmative, and he probably should have. He rubbed a hand along the bristle of his jaw, gazed up at the blue sky for a minute and then said—"No."

Mrs. Lambrick pressed her lips together. She set the basket firmly on the ground in front of her feet. Gathered her skirts. Turned and marched away.

"Thank you," he called after her, because he was fairly sure Abigail wouldn't have wanted him to be rude. He blew out a breath, planted the hoe in the dirt and picked up the basket. Underneath the linen cloth there was some kind of fancy baked thing. It looked good, and while he was hungry he meant to wait until Abigail was up so that they could have some together. But when he returned to the house she was already coming out of her room, barefoot, pulling the shawl around her shoulders, her eyes still sleep-drowsy. "I...I thought I heard someone."

"Churchwoman. Brought us breakfast." Billy set the basket on the table.

"Us?" Abigail repeated, putting a hand to her mouth. She mumbled through her fingers, "What did you say to her?"

"Not much. She was in a hurry. Sit down, let's eat. Lots to do today." He poured a mug of tea from the kettle, tasting it first—strong the way he liked—before giving her some. He pulled out her chair and waited for her to slide into it before finding his own. Abigail sipped obediently at her drink but he knew her mind was still on that preacher's wife.

They shared the food and she was quiet. He stretched his legs out, eager to get started on their day together; a break from the ship, an opportunity to take care of obligations. A pretty obligation she was, too. He liked the way her hair was tangling around her shoulders, its darkness against the light skin of her collarbone where her shawl had slipped away. _Obligation,_ he reminded himself; obligation first, pretty second.

But he also liked the way she looked at him with shy trust in her eyes.

 _Dammit Billy_.

He drank the rest of the tea. "Ready to go?"

Abigail blinked. "Go...to town? But I must be a sight. My hair...this dress..."

"No one in town but pirates and whores to see you," he said, only intending to offer a practical sort of comfort but realizing it was wrong as soon as the words left his mouth. She stood up, and he did too, catching her hand before she could turn away. "I mean—that's not what I mean. Sorry. You look fine."

She drew back on her hand and he let go at once, not wanting to be brutish, and she disappeared down the hall to her room, closing the door.

He tidied up the remainder of their presence in the kitchen and lingered there for a while, uncertain whether or not she meant to come back out. When enough time seemed to have passed he went down the hallway, took a few steps back to the kitchen, then ended up in front of her door again. He rested his forehead against it. And put his hand up to knock, but she was opening it then, making him step back.

"I am ready," she said.

She'd changed her dress and done something with her hair. He didn't quite know why, but it seemed appropriate in that moment to hold out his arm like he was escorting her to dinner, and with cool gravity she took it and they went down the hall together.

Outside under the warm sun, Billy collected the horse. Bringing it over to Abigail, he offered, "Want to ride?"

She looked at him wide-eyed. "I never have."

"It's easy." He let the lead slide and put his hands at her waist to lift her up. She clutched at him, but he deposited her atop the animal's back and steadied her long enough for her to regain balance.

"I fear I shall fall," Abigail said, gripping the horse's mane.

"You won't. We'll go slow." He moved out, leading the animal who followed with docility. Once out of the courtyard, he picked up his pace, striding; it was going to take at least an hour to make the journey to town this way. He estimated he'd better find a cart for the return trip—they'd need it to hold the supplies in any case. He checked occasionally over his shoulder but Abigail seemed to be managing well enough.

The sun was intense at this time of morning; Billy was used to it, but once they reached the outer shacks of Nassau he could see Abigail was wilting from the heat. Her face was flushed and she drooped above him on the horse. He reached for her and she slid off into his arms. "Easy," he said, as the horse sidestepped in irritation at such a lackluster dismount. "All right?"

She nodded, wiping the back of a hand to her forehead, and walked beside him as they entered the town.

A farrier Billy knew had lent him the use of the horse. He brought the animal there, while Abigail waited nearby in the shade of a cluster of palms.

She was self-conscious, he saw upon returning, and he couldn't blame her; while there were always newcomers in and out of Nassau, the sight of a girl who clearly didn't work in the brothel but seemed something more than a house servant would naturally attract notice.

His presence at her side wasn't necessarily going to be the best testament to her character (the reaction of the pastor's wife had shown that) but he couldn't afford to give that much concern. It was more important to provide for her immediate needs so she could survive on her own for days at a time. He'd taken stock of the household contents after Abigail had gone to bed the previous night and had kept a mental note of what he wanted to bring back with them today. But Abigail looked in need of refreshment, so he took her to the tavern.

He had some misgivings just before they went in. After all, it was hardly the sort of establishment to which one should bring an actual lady. Not only did the brothel girls often wander around in various states of undress, there was no guarantee someone wouldn't start a fight that involved spilling of blood. Still, the tavern was one of the only places in Nassau to get a decent meal off-ship, and the fact it was barely noon meant the likelihood of offensive sights was relatively low. He would risk it.

Abigail was gazing at him; tired, but still with that look of trust in her eyes. He hoped nothing was going to happen in the next few hours to make that look disappear.

Reaching for her hand, he used his other to push the door open.

To his relief, the interior—as he tried to view it from Abigail's perspective—seemed presentable enough. A few men were hunched over their drinks, drowning personal sorrows. Someone was asleep (possibly dead, but more likely just asleep) in the corner nearest the door. There was a girl or two hanging about but both were fully dressed, and the remaining handful of patrons were busily involved in their midday meals. Billy steered Abigail in the direction of a quiet corner table. She seemed grateful to sit.

One of the serving girls came to see what they wanted and was back before long with drinks and food.

"This is all right then, isn't it?" he said, beginning to relax now that no one seemed to be taking an interest in their affairs.

Abigail sipped at her cider and looked around a little doubtfully but nodded. "Do you often come here?"

"No," he said, and it was true. The rest of his crew had, in the early days, hounded him to join them whenever they were ashore but most of them now accepted that he didn't share their taste for whoring and drinking. _He's too serious for that, our Billy,_ was the phrase, or some variation of it, that he often heard. He let the men think what they wanted, but the truth was, as a senior crewman, he simply didn't feel it was appropriate to mingle with the others while land-bound.

When they had eaten, and sat for a while, Abigail seemed rested, and Billy was about to propose that they be on their way when he saw two of his shipmates come in.

He suppressed the epithets that came to mind—it was too late to rise now, that would only draw further attention. Of course, they spotted him at once and came over, grinning like idiots.

"Carter," he said, evenly, since they were impossible to ignore. "Meeks."

"What're you doing here, Billy?"

"Dinner." He indicated the plates. "Take our table if you like, we're done."

Meeks nudged his companion. "Told you he was with the lass didn't I? The two of you make a right charming couple," he said, leering at Abigail whose eyes were downcast.

"Shut it, Meeks," Carter said grandly. "Sorry, Billy."

Billy dug out some coins to leave on the table, shot them both a look and, standing, went to Abigail's side and took her arm. She tucked her hand around his elbow and lowered her head as they went outside into the dusty heat.

He had a specific shop in mind to go next, for the order of grain and other foodstuffs, and he set out without realizing he was striding so fast until he became aware he was nearly hauling her along. He slowed his pace.

"They seemed harmless," Abigail ventured.

He grunted a single syllable of assent, unable to come up with words for his shipmates at that moment.

"But you're angry."

"No." He took a breath and exhaled, trying to clarify the real source of his irritation. "Just seems like there's nowhere to get away from them sometimes."

They spent the next hour finding the supplies Billy wanted to set Abigail up with; mostly food products, but also household necessities like candles and whatever else that occurred to him she might conceivably need. Abigail voiced weak objection the first time she saw how many coins were leaving his possession, so thereafter he made quiet arrangement with each proprietor to settle later. The goods were packed into a waiting cart for them to take back when ready.

Abigail lingered, clearly not in a hurry to leave the sights and sounds of town. Billy watched her as she admired bolts of fabric set outside the draper's stall, protected by a flapping awning. He spotted something indoors, a linen shawl edged with lace, and gestured at it. "Like it?"

"I don't need..." she demurred, feeling at her throat for the one she wore—the Barlow woman's, and too warm for such weather, even he who had no idea about feminine fashions could see that.

The draper brought the item out, having noticed their interest, and suggested a price to Billy. He knew the sum meant nothing in particular to Abigail, and to him it seemed a lot for a scrap of fabric, pretty as the thing was, but he wasn't about to bargain when it'd been his idea in the first place. He exchanged the coins for the cloth and turned to Abigail expectantly.

Her cheeks, already pink from the sun, seemed to deepen in color. Blinking, she let the heavier shawl fall from her shoulders, the low cut of the dress revealing pale skin he'd not yet seen. He settled the new purchase carefully around her. They stared into each other's eyes, his hands still near her chest holding the ends of the scarf.

The draper coughed, startling them both out of the moment, and bade them good-day.

"We should get the goods back to the house," Billy said, glancing at the position of the sun in the sky. It was still only early afternoon, but he had one more stop in mind on the way out of town. He'd noticed it on the walk in; a little glade with masses of flowers he thought she might appreciate.

On the cart riding back, Abigail was sitting upright on the bench as far from him as the small space allowed—in contrast to the way she'd clung to his arm the last time they rode in together—and he wondered if he'd offended her, or if she wouldn't be amenable to a taste of the island's scenery, but when he pulled the cart to the side and got out, holding out a hand for her, she took it with a smile. She inhaled deeply. "How lovely. It smells wonderful here."

He made a sound of agreement as they strolled beneath the yellow blooms. There was enough shade to keep the heat of the sun at bay. "Wouldn't pick 'em though," he cautioned when she reached out to touch one of the flowers.

"Why not?"

"Give you an awful rash."

He grinned at her look of dismay. "This kind's all right." He reached up above her head and pulled down a vividly pink blossom from a different tree, holding it out to her.

Her nostrils flared as she took in the scent, and then she accepted it.

"Thank you," she said, after a pause, very soft.

He knew she was speaking of more than the flower. He turned, scuffing the ground with his boot.

"I feel I can never repay you."

"No need," he said, more gruffly than he meant to. "Told you that already."

"I don't know anyone who does such things."

"You do now."

She was still twisting the flower by its stem in her fingers. He took it back from her and put it in her dark hair, by her ear.

And then when she smiled, hesitantly, he thought about kissing her—he almost did—but stopped himself because they had just been talking about payment and he didn't want her to think he thought he'd earned the right to. It wouldn't be fair.

But it was damn hard not to, when she didn't look as if she would be averse to a kiss.

He exerted self-control and directed his gaze elsewhere.

"May we sit a while?" Abigail proposed shyly.

The carthorse appeared content to stand in the shade, swishing at flies, and there was no pressing need to move on. Billy followed Abigail to the base of a flowering princewood tree, where she sat, and he stretched out, in the tall grasses.

The heat was thick, almost vibrating, and the air rich with the scent of blossoms around them and the warm dirt beneath. Abigail braided a rope of grass with deft fingers. Billy could hear the scrabble of insects along the ground, the hum of birds in the bushes; different from the sounds aboard ship, but relaxing nevertheless. He closed his eyes, prompted by the searing colors of sun and sky.


	9. Storm

_A/N: Apologies again for the long delay with this chapter!_

* * *

Abigail, having finished weaving a reed bracelet, became aware that Billy's breathing had slowed. Was he sleeping? She recalled suddenly that of course he must be tired, the men all took short shifts aboard ships and none of them slept through the night. By now, he would have been awake far longer than he was accustomed to. Guiltily, she gazed down at him, at the slow rise and fall of his chest, at the pulse in the base of his throat where the knotted necklets lay. She wanted to touch them, but was afraid to wake him when he needed the rest. _Dear Billy._ The tenderness of the unbidden thought startled her, and she looked around, as if she had said it aloud. _But he is being so good to me, and only takes my thanks in return._

She put a hand on his shoulder, remembering the look in his eyes when he'd put the new shawl around her—was it wicked vanity to imagine it had been something like cautious reverence? He didn't stir, and she felt safe to lay her own head down in the grass, against his arm. Somewhat shameless, to be sure, but was it so wrong to lie innocent, side by side under the sky? She could close her eyes, knowing he would wake if any threat came near.

Some time later—the sun had drifted from its midpoint towards the west—Abigail shifted, having dozed off. A pebble was digging into her hip. She turned, naturally, towards Billy, resting her hand on his chest. He shifted too then, putting his arm around her so that she was quite next to him; her head against his shoulder. She lay rigid for a few moments, her senses of propriety and enjoyment temporarily at war with each other. The latter won; it was too nice to be held so, after days of privation.

"We should get back," he said. She squirmed in surprise, hearing his voice deep through his chest; she'd thought he still slept. Quickly she pulled away and sat upright, tugging in confusion at the grasses in her hair, sparing him a shy glance.

He looked disconcerted. "I didn't mean this very moment."

"But we ought," she murmured. "If you've rested."

When he said, "All right. Still have that wood to chop," she felt spurned, and as they walked back to the cart she couldn't help wondering if perhaps he was wanting to be back on his ship already rather than spend another evening with her.

But his hands were there, gentle as always, not the least impatient, helping her up on the seat, brushing stray grass clinging to her skirt, no less attentive than usual.

"Want to drive?" He offered her the reins.

"I've never—" she began. He grinned at her, and she returned the expression, sharing in the silent exchange of knowledge that there were going to be many such instances of things she had never done in this new life.

"Just hang on to them. This one won't give you any trouble."

She took the reins and gave them a hesitant tap, mimicking what she had seen him do earlier. The horse started forwards obligingly, jerking as the weight of the cart shifted, but falling into a pace and finding the road.

"There you are," Billy approved.

She ridiculously wanted his approval.

"You're a natural. Maybe we should get you your own horse."

"If I had one, I might use it ride away," she returned, emboldened by a jolt of self-confidence from successfully controlling the wagon.

"You'd need a boat for that," he reminded.

She had forgotten they were on an island. She couldn't think what to say for a few moments until she felt him looking at her, and then he said, his tone deeper and more serious, "If you ever want to leave this place, tell me."

"If I did tell you so, what would you do?" She stole an equally serious glance at him before returning her gaze to the road.

"Take you," he said. She felt a pleased shiver run down her spine at the simplicity of the words.

If he meant them, of course. Words were easily enough said. And she had reason not to trust the words of men.

Though he was different.

"Thank you," she said again.

"There's something I want more than thanks," he said.

Abigail held her breath for a moment longer than normal, unable to imagine what that might be. She waited, hearing only the horse's hooves plodding in the dirt ahead of them.

"I want you to be safe here." He put a hand on her wrist, straightening it where it had gone rather limp. "Safe. And, if you can, happy."

When she didn't speak he said: "I know that's a lot. Maybe too much."

"I _have_ been happy," she said, "today."

 _And yesterday,_ she thought _. But tomorrow—when you are gone—that might indeed be too much._

* * *

Another full week of solitude—punctuated only by one very short visit by the disapproving minister's wife—passed before Billy came to see Abigail at the house a second time. He was apologetic, but he could only stay for the day; duty bade him back to the ship that same evening, though it was already noon. Then, he worked outdoors for nearly the entire time—tending the garden, making some repairs to the roof (which had leaked with the most recent storm-burst) and chopping more wood. He came in for a hurried supper without much conversation, and left on his horse before the sun set.

Abigail tried not to be much bothered by the short and perfunctory visit. She was grateful for the things he'd brought, which she waited until the following day to open as a form of diversion, though they were only practical items: grain for bread, with hastily jotted, dictated instructions from Randall the cook as to its preparation, and other foodstuffs.

Over the next fortnight, she attempted to divine the secrets to bread-making— without a great deal of success, though she gamely ate the results of her experiments. Now that she had become comfortable with preparing the garden's offerings and knew where to forage for fruit, food was easier, but it galled her that something so simple as a good loaf of bread should be so difficult to prepare.

On Billy's third arrival, he brought more candles. Over dinner, he complimented the burnt and lumpy bread, and was vague about when he would have to get back to the ship. In the morning when Abigail woke and came out to the kitchen, he had already gone, and on the table there was a length of bright ribbon.

The thing was beautifully dyed, as pretty as anything she'd seen for sale in the shops at Charleston, but Abigail stared at it for a long moment while anger kindled within her. Did he think such an offering would sweeten his desertion? Did he think her a child, her good opinion (which he had long _had_ ) so easily won? And the anger lingered, fueled further by the loneliness and uncertainty—which she had made great steps in defeating, but which she still fought at certain hours of the day.

Abigail put the ribbon away in her trunk and, in the following days, attempted to repress any conscious thoughts of its giver. She began to play at the spinet, weeded ferociously, baked loaf after loaf of uncooperative bread, and took long walks exploring the area around her land. And she wrote, detailing all her efforts and her discoveries in the journal, though she made no further mention therein regarding absent pirates.

She felt that she was managing rather well, all things considered, until the rainy season started. If that was indeed what it was (though what else could three days of ceaseless downpour be considered?) There was dry wood aplenty, but the fire smoked, even though she employed _his—_ she tried not to let herself think of him by name when she had to think about him at all—techniques on how to correct it.

Abigail spent the third rainy afternoon making two loaves of bread, setting them to rise by the heat of the hearth. She played loudly on the spinet, trying to drown out the never-ending patter of raindrops above, and checked the bread. It had not risen measurably, but she put it to bake nevertheless. Then, more irritable than tired, she lay down in her kitchen bed for a nap, and rose again just before dark in time to take the bread out.

It had burned along the bottom, yet not cooked inside. She had been eating such since the last full moon, but today the poor results touched a nerve and, when she heard the horse neigh outside, that was the final provocation.

Abigail waited until the door swung open and then hurled the loaf at it.

Billy ducked, though the bread fell short of its intended target. He stared at her, dismayed, dripping wet like the first time, though now she did not rush to him but walked in measured paces to the entryway, where she took hold of the door and looked at him inquiringly as if he were a stranger. Which he _was_.

"Abigail. What's...?"

"Is that for me?" she interrupted, gesturing at the bag slung over his shoulder.

He nodded, his head tilted sideways, eyeing her like she was an equally unknown entity.

"Set it down there." She pointed right next to the door.

He did. The look on his face was almost enough to make her relent.

Almost. And then she remembered the ribbon.

"You may as well be on your way, if you like," she said, coolly. "There's no need for you to stay."

Billy looked back into the pouring rain, the mounting blackness of oncoming night through the still-open door. Back again at her. "You want me to go?"

"No doubt your duties call you back. And anyway, that dreadful fire has burned the bread again."

"I don't care about the _bread_." He sounded incredulous.

"I have no idea what you care about!" she said—almost shouted—and then was, for an instant, afraid, since she had never raised her voice to anyone in her life. Indeed, she half-expected him to respond with equal anger, but there was only a growing hurt that, even distracted by her own convoluted emotions, she could read on his face.

"I care about you," he said, after a brief silence.

"Yet you leave me." Her voice cracked.

"I have to." He clasped hands over the back of his head and pulled it down, closing his eyes as if in momentary desperation. He looked back up, drawing a breath. "Don't you know that?"

The overcoat he was still wearing was shedding rainwater on the floor in pools around his feet.

"Take that off," she said, with sudden sharp irritation. "Come in and close the door."

He turned, closing the door so slowly that it barely made a sound.

Abigail felt suffused with tremulous power she had no idea where or how to direct. Her hands shook, and she locked them one over the other, digging each set of nails into the opposite palm.

Billy's hand was still on the latch, his face turned to the door. Then he shrugged off his overcoat, letting it stay where it fell. He looked back at her. "Anything happen when I was gone?"

"No," she said. Her voice sounded flat to her own ears. What kind of a question was that? She had tended the garden, drawn water, carried wood indoors. She had struggled with the fire. The sun had risen and fallen. What did he expect to have happened?

He came away from the door, halting near the table. She maintained her place by the hearth, folding her arms now. Billy ran a hand along the back of the chair and then gave her a sideways tentative glance. "You sure?"

"Are you supposing—are you suggesting—I am confused about how I passed the time?"

He shook his head, fractionally.

"Then what is it you want to know?"

"You're just...behaving different. Thought maybe someone'd come here. Scared you." He gazed around the room now briefly before re-focusing on her face. "Nothing like that happened?"

It was her turn to shake her head. She wanted to hang on to her anger, but it was starting to fade. Still, she was getting that cold feeling in the pit of her stomach again. He was going to do what he always did—stay the night, leave in the morning, or whenever the weather brightened.

"I can't go on in this way," she said, surprising herself when the words came out.

After a few moments of silence he said, "All right," letting the words hang, like an inquiry rather than an agreement.

 _If you ever want to leave this place, tell me._ That's what he'd promised her. Only that wasn't what she wanted, exactly. The fault did not lie in the location—it was in her, in her lack of proper position or actual standing, caught in this limbo, this half-life. Where she was nothing. Where she was nobody.


	10. Choice

_Apologies for the extreme delay in getting this chapter posted! Life has been complicated. I'm trying to re-dedicate time to the story._

* * *

 **One Week Earlier—**

"How does the girl?" Flint asked, catching Billy's arm abruptly as he would have passed the older man by on deck.

"Well enough," Billy said, noncommittally, but then honesty compelled him to add, "I think."

"You continue to keep looking after her?"

"There's no one else to do it."

"Not that I'm trying to get rid of you," Flint said, "but have you given any thought to making that a more permanent arrangement?"

Billy turned away, seaward, gripping a section of the rigging as the ship shifted unexpectedly underneath them. "Not sure she'd take me."

Flint made a dismissive sound. "She'd be a fool not to."

"I don't know. I—"

"What? Have it said, man."

"I worry enough as it is. If I'll be able to look after her. If she were mine—if we had a family—I don't think I could leave her."

He stopped, at first having felt defiance, but now embarrassed by the vulnerability of the admission.

"Sounds to me like you might have to give up piracy," was all the other man said.

"And do what, farm?" The last word came out more contemptuous than he'd intended.

"Better men than you have done it."

"You wouldn't."

"Aye, I would not. But I am a captain. You're a good leader. The men respect you and would do your bidding for a time, but you lack a certain—" Flint paused "—ruthlessness necessary for successful captaincy."

"I don't want my own ship, but I don't much want to be land-bound, either." He ran fingers along the length of rope until a splinter wedged itself under his fingernail and he winced and pulled away.

"Give up the girl then," Flint said, walking off, but not before slapping him on the shoulder with enough force that it was difficult to tell whether the action was meant to be consoling or punitive.

 _Give up the girl._ As though that were an option. As though that had ever been an option, from the moment he'd brought her to Nassau, brought her aboard ship, possibly even earlier.

* * *

And now, in the Barlow woman's house, with the rain pouring down on the roof above them and night having fallen, Billy thought that Abigail was still looking like she very well might throw something at him again if he so much as breathed too loudly.

Much less offered a proposal of—

Well. Marriage. That was what he was thinking about, wasn't it? That was where this was inevitably leading. She'd said they couldn't go on in the current manner. And it was true for him as well. He couldn't continue to work on the ship and establish a regular pattern of returns to Nassau, only to stay a night, do what jobs needed doing and hope she was all right after he left again. It wasn't fair to the men, if his thoughts were here.

How did you live two lives, when they held such different prospects?

A part of him, he knew, would be happy with stability. He'd had that taken away from him at a young age, but he still remembered what it was to have a family.

He sat down on the chair, slowly. Abigail still stood, rigid, near the hearth, maintaining her distance.

Billy decided it was time to try something. It might fail in spectacular fashion, but she'd already thrown bread at him, and as there was nothing else in the vicinity to hurl, he was probably safe.

He swung his leg out sideways to make a place for her to sit and patted it by way of invitation. "Come here."

Her eyes widened. After a moment she said, "I beg your pardon?"

"You heard me."

"I will not!" Her voice raised in pitch, but not angry. Even from here he could see the flush building on her neck.

He smiled at her.

"I will not...not sit on you. What an improper suggestion." She eyed him while smoothing an imaginary wrinkle in the front of her dress.

"Just come here, will you?" He held out his hand and tilted his head to the side, to present less of a threat. He didn't want to stand up, to put himself in the position of power.

She had to _want_ to. He really hoped she wanted to, even if it was only a little.

He waited, and he thought, for a few moments, she was going to walk away, go to her bedroom and slam the door.

But then she came. Slowly. Her skirts rustling across the floor. Stopping once, just out of reach of his arm. She smelled of sun-dried linen. He thought about kissing her wary mouth into submission.

One step at a time.

He extended his arm a little further, turned his wrist to reach her hand. Their fingertips touched, slid together. He angled his fingers around hers, noticing how her hand still felt so soft, so unsuited for this life.

"Abigail."

She started, nervously, when he said her name.

"Still want me to go?"

Her lashes fell, in defeat. But she stubbornly didn't speak.

"You can just say it, you know," he said. "That I was gone too long. I didn't want to be gone that long."

"It is as you said. You had no choice." She sounded distant now. Again.

"If I wanted to keep getting paid," he said. "Do you hate it here? On the island."

"What? No, I..." Abigail made a futile gesture with her free hand. "It is only that I have no purpose."

"Look at me," he said.

She did, with seeming reluctance.

"What do you think about getting married?"

She blinked. And her eyes widened a fraction. "To...to you?"

"I don't know anyone else to recommend," he said, trying to sound light, although the truth was she deserved better; he could imagine her father, if she'd still had one, laughing in his face at the idea of giving his girl to such a one as him. Laughing, and then having him hanged. Or shot.

Oh, there were worse men, to be sure he yet crewed with some of them, but Billy wasn't going to pretend he was any kind of fit match for Lord Ashe's daughter.

He was just going to look after her, if she'd let him. Give their current existence as much credibility as he could. Stand up in front of the churchman together, and he'd vow to all of it, if that was what she wanted.

The longer she was silent, the more he worried that it wasn't.

After a few more moments Abigail said, tremulously, "I have not thought about it...but...that is...I am not certain..."

"Of me?"

"No...but of why you are asking." Her eyes begged him to help make it all simple again. To return to an easier time. Perhaps even to go back before they had met—he didn't know. He tried to form a reply that would be both honest and comforting. To say just that it made the most sense did not seem complete. To admit that he had strong feelings for her would have been true, but he wasn't ready for, or in the habit of making, confessions of love.

"I think it'd be a good thing," he said, at last, not breaking gaze with her.

A few more long moments passed and then Abigail seemed to muster some inner strength or dignity and said quietly, "Very well."

He felt himself smile—with each moment it had seemed less likely that she would accept such an impromptu proposal. But now she was ducking her head, a flush building on her cheekbones, and, mindful of her self-consciousness, he took the opportunity to establish practical considerations. He said, "The captain can do it for us. Or we can have the preacher if you'd rather."

"Yes, please, the preacher."

He'd sooner have chosen Captain Flint to preside, but Abigail's comfort was of more importance. "I'll bring him here tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow," she repeated, sounding uncertain.

"Unless that's too soon." He didn't see that there was any reason to wait, though perhaps she did.

"No, I...I suppose that would suit."

He still held her hand. There was silence between them for a few moments.

Outside, the rain had slackened, and they listened to it for a space.

Then Abigail said, very softly, "It is getting late. I feel we should—I should—retire."

She made to withdraw her hand, and he released it. He wanted quite suddenly, then, to say something of love to her, of something that at least expressed affection, but the moment passed, and she turned, and he didn't think he ought to call after her. Well, there would be time enough to say such things, now. Now that they were committed. Now that they were to marry on the morrow.

And what _was_ he going to do now, he pondered, as Abigail's bedroom door closed gently and he was alone in the main room. Now that he'd chosen the girl over life and work at sea.


	11. Wedding

"Do you, Abigail Elizabeth Ashe, take this man—" The pastor hesitated fractionally, before delivering the name—"William Manderly, to be your lawful, wedded husband?"

She had already anticipated some form of this question in her mind, but the moment had come, now, to speak, so suddenly, and for an instant her throat closed. Knowing she was going to appear woefully uncertain at the very juncture she wanted to seem convincing and sure, in front of the others. Not that a large group had assembled—on the contrary, there were only two others; the pastor's wife, some distance behind Abigail and off to her left, and Captain Flint, standing impassive, serving in capacity not as officiator but as a secondary witness to their marriage. He'd arrived a little late, after they had already stood up together at the front of the tiny church, and she'd dared to glance back only once to see who it was.

She sensed Billy's slightest of sideways glances—did her hesitation seem overly long to him as well? Pastor Lambrick's eyes were trained with piercing intensity on her expression. She said, almost with a gasp, "I do."

Repeating the question with their names appropriately transposed, the pastor addressed Billy, and Abigail felt a twinge of guilt mingled with pleasure at the calm confidence of his reply. At least he did not seem doubtful. It gave her courage, though she still felt dreadfully self-conscious.

The pastor was continuing with solemn words about their responsibilities to God and each other. She tried to pay attention. The service seemed interminable. The church was ridiculously warm and her dress, lent to her earlier that morning by Mrs. Lambrick, deeply uncomfortable though it had seemed fitting enough at the moment of trying on. Abigail shifted, seeking strength from Billy's tall presence at her side. He had no fancy clothing, but he was clean and, she thought, respectable, no matter what the pastor might think of their pairing. She felt a rush of protectiveness at the thought. Billy came from good people. And they were doing the right thing, even if she was a little terrified.

The conflicting thoughts raced through her mind, confusing her one moment, delighting her the next. She wanted to be Billy's wife. She had no idea what being Billy's wife was going to involve.

The pastor took their hands and brought them together, Billy's over hers. Her hand disappeared under his, and he squeezed her fingers gently, reminding her of last night, when he had brought this proposal to her. _Only last night._

She looked up into his eyes. The pastor was saying something about sealing the union. She realized Billy was about to kiss her. But he was waiting, he wouldn't initiate the action if she didn't want, she knew that. She didn't like to do it with the others watching, it seemed so...brazen—even if they were married in the eyes of God and the law upon this moment. But it must be done...She tilted her head up. He leaned in. The kiss was respectful, his lips warm on hers just for a heartbeat or two. They stared at each other, hardly able to believe it.

And then someone was offering congratulations, in the form of prim well-wishes from Mrs. Lambrick and an unexpected, stern embrace from Captain Flint, who gazed at her unsmiling after and wished them both happiness. She murmured words of thanks in response, feeling inadequate, and wanting desperately that they be left alone, and yet, what would they do then? Prompted by a sense of responsibility, Abigail made the hesitant invitation of a meal back at the house, but no one seemed inclined: the pastor and his wife demurred, alluding to other duties, and Flint had, of course, to return to his ship.

Mrs. Lambrick informed them that she would stop by in the next week, as though they were children needing to be checked upon, but as she clearly saw this as a discharge of her duty, neither Billy nor Abigail took issue with it.

Flint, after dispensing a few enigmatic words in Billy's direction on the care and keeping of a wife—which Abigail did not fully understand—mounted his horse and also left.

Billy helped her into the cart they had taken together. The church door was closed, the pastor and Mrs. Lambrick remaining within. The two newly wedded were left to themselves.

The cart lurched forward, its wheels initially sliding rather than turning in the mud created from yesterday's rains. Abigail gripped the bench and remembered her first ride with this man, the day they'd left the beach. Now, not so many days later, she was his wife.

Surely, this was madness.

Surely, this was how it was always to have been.

Billy shifted the reins to one hand and put the other on her knee. She wasn't sure if the gesture was meant to be amorous or reassuring. Rather hoping the latter, she gave him a cautious smile.

After a moment he removed his hand. "Want to go into town?" he asked.

She had not thought of doing so, but, thinking of it, rather than returning to the house immediately and inviting the dear Lord knew what manner of awkwardness, it seemed an appealing prospect. "Might we?"

"We can do whatever we want," Billy said, carelessly. "The day a man gets married he shouldn't have to work."

"And a woman?"

"I reckon we should both be off duty," he said, giving her the sideways grin that made him look so unexpectedly irreproachable. She remembered their kiss of only moments ago, and felt her cheeks warm. She glanced away quickly and sought for something to say. "It is a beautiful day," was all she could come up with.

"Hot," he agreed. "I'll take it over the rain."

"I suppose we need to give attention to the weather, now that we have a...a farm of sorts to manage," Abigail said, wondering if she was sounding too formal.

"Suppose we will."

Had he sounded less cheerful? Or was she imagining it. "And have animals?"

"We could," he said. "I don't know if I'm any good at any of that—helping things grow. Keeping things alive."

He meant to speak lightly, she could tell this time, but still an undercurrent of apprehension had slipped through his words, leading her to rest her hand on his sun-warmed forearm now, and say, "You have kept _me_ alive—all this time."

"Wouldn't have been able to, if you'd been a different sort of woman."

"A different sort?" she repeated, intrigued.

He looked self-conscious. "The sort I thought you were when I first saw you..."

"Helpless, I imagine," she said softly.

"Just—I don't know the word for it. Too good for all of this. Too good to look at me. But then you did and I—shouldn't've got distracted, but..."

Abigail was caught between sympathetic embarrassment for knowing exactly what he was talking about (since they had been mutually distracted upon their initial encounter aboard ship) and wanting him to say more about how he felt; to say precisely how his feelings had progressed from that day, how he was seeing her in another light.

And yet, she had heard something that needed clarifying. "I'm not too good," she said, uncertain what she was arguing for. Or against.

"You are, though. Not prideful, I don't mean that—" He squinted away into the sun for a moment, letting the reins in his hand slacken a bit while the horse plodded on ahead dutifully. "You're braver. Than I thought."

He looked at her directly and she was flustered by the compliment, by the blueness of his eyes. She ducked her head and felt herself smiling, recalling that yesterday—how could it possibly have been only a day ago?—that she had flung a loaf of burnt bread at him.

"What?" he said, noting her expression.

"I was thinking of yesterday, when you walked in the door."

"Ah." His tone was carefully neutral.

"I didn't mean to throw something I had spent so much effort on. It was just what was at hand."

They both laughed a little, and he said, "I'm glad it wasn't something more dangerous. I certainly wasn't expecting that particular reception."

"You were expecting a particular kind, were you?" Abigail spoke piquantly, surprising herself.

"I thought you'd be happy to see me. You always were before."

"You left me a ribbon," she said.

His face turned all confusion. "I thought you'd like it. Simple...pretty...put me in mind of you. I know I got you that"—he gestured at her shoulders, apparently having temporarily forgotten the word for shawl—"thing, before, but I was almost out of coin. After I paid for the supplies."

Her stomach sank and suddenly she felt horribly small. "Oh, Billy, I didn't mean that I didn't _like_ it, I just didn't want—I just wanted—it was there instead of you." Her voice trailed away at the end until the word "you" came out little more than a whisper.

He stared straight ahead of them down the road, she could see out of the corner of her eye, though she was trying to keep her own gaze focused on her feet on the floorboards, wanting indeed to shrink down into the bottom of the cart and perhaps vanish altogether in that moment. The admission made her feel utterly vulnerable, and she didn't know what she wanted him to do—pretend she hadn't said it, and keep on as they were, slowly making their way into the town, or simply take the confession for an apology, and tell her it was all right...

"Whoa." Billy pulled the horse back. The cart wheels rattled to a stop. For a few full moments, they sat thus, neither moving. The horse twitched his tail placidly.

Billy brought one knee up and turned sideways on the bench, rather discommoding Abigail since his legs were so long, to face her. He reached out and put a warm hand on the edge of her chin, turning her so she had to look at him.

"You missed me." His voice was wondering. Partially incredulous. With a touch of rakishness thrown in, she could see that in the slight curve of his mouth.

Though she was quite out of her depth and had not the merest idea how to bring this conversation back into the realm of polite appropriateness (and start them riding onwards again) Abigail decided to be honest and say with some petulance, "Of course I did."

His hand lingered by her face, near her ear, the rough skin of his knuckles causing tremors to run up her limbs, then he ran his fingers through a curl of her hair, releasing it at its end just against her breast. Abigail swallowed, aware suddenly of the heat, of how dry her throat had just become. Though she had flung herself into his arms once, had lain beside him for a few moments while he slept—and even this very morning they had shared a kiss in the church—this still felt the most intimate moment thus far. Perhaps it was the intensity in his expression.

"I," he said, "missed you."

"Oh," she said, barely audible even to her own ears. It wasn't quite how she meant to respond. Words seemed so very ineffective, so unavailing. And then she added, also without meaning to, all in a rush, "We should probably be on our way."

"We should," he conceded, and amid the tiny storm of emotions that were confusing her, she realized he'd sounded regretful, and she felt a responding jolt of consternation—wondering if she'd just irrevocably damaged the building attachment between them, if they would now have to start again to get to this point.

Soon the lush greenery of the interior was falling away, and the landscape altering to scrubby, windswept trees indicative of the coast. As they closed in on the outskirts of Nassau, Abigail sat up straighter, aware that in the weeks she'd been alone at the house, she had missed the sounds—though perhaps not the smells—of civilization. She found a handkerchief in the folds of her skirts and put it up to her nose, trying to be discreet, as they rolled along.

"Want to get something to eat?" Billy inquired, with a wry glance when she coughed.

"No, I think I would prefer to walk. Along the beach?" Abigail said hopefully, thinking of the fresh sea air.

"The beach," he said, his lips parting while he hesitated in forming words. "Er...walk. On the beach."

"Yes, you know." Then she realized he possibly _didn't_ grasp the concept of a promenade; it would more than likely seem pointless to men unaccustomed to leisure time, as much as sitting in a drawing room might.

"If—you like," Billy said, halting the wagon as they drew up to the farrier's where they had stopped on their previous visit. He tied up the horse to the hitching post while Abigail waited for him to help her disembark—not that she needed to, the cart wasn't such a distance from the ground, but she cherished it, the way he always came, reaching for her hand, and just now how he swept her a little to the side, out of the way of the muddiest ruts. She straightened, holding his forearms to steady herself, and also because she liked the feeling of their taut warmth under her palms.

They smiled at each other, neither sure what the other was seeing.

"Right," Billy said eventually, jerking his head in the approximate direction of the ocean, still some way through the town. "Shall we?"

Abigail nodded. She slid her arm through the crook of his elbow, because now, for the first time, it was appropriate to do so in public. They moved down the street together, and a happy pride was beginning to kindle in her heart, as she hugged the arm of the man now her husband.


	12. Chapter 12

Billy didn't know how the hell this was supposed to work.

Was this what married couples did in Charlestown? Didn't people have to make a living? Oh, he'd said they could take the day off and he'd meant it, it just seemed fitting to have at least this whole day to themselves, and it certainly wasn't that he didn't _want_ to stroll down the beach with Abigail on his arm...

He just didn't want anyone else to be around.

And the beach had never seemed so busy.

He was aware of every glance (admiring, lecherous) that the other men bestowed in Abigail's direction, even while he tried to keep her as close by his side so that she was almost an extension of himself, visually (it just seemed to make more sense). Abigail, at least, appeared not to be noticing so far, as they walked among the tents, heading—as quickly as Billy could manage and still maintain the appearance of a casual stroll—further away from the most populated area of the shoreline. He'd already seen plenty of men he knew already, who with the slightest encouragement might have hailed them or come over with a friendly inquiry or perhaps playful joking, but did not, he assumed, because of the scowl he bent in their direction as soon as he spotted a shipmate. It wasn't even really the bold strangers or the catcallers he was worried about—it was the ones who stayed back, the ones more speculative, who saw Abigail and then looked away like they didn't care, like there was always some untouched fair-skinned English rose walking among them.

He unwittingly tightened his hand on hers and heard her small squeak of surprise.

"Sorry." Chagrined, he tried to relax, tried to concentrate just on the feel of the sand under his feet, of the breeze that blew fresh salt air into the bay, but he couldn't stop noticing everything. His senses were attuned to begin with—the manner in which a rope creaked or the sound of the waves against the hull could tell you different things, and it was almost painful to maintain that heightened sense of awareness beyond your appointed length of watch.

And then there was Abigail herself.. all it took was for her hair, swept by the wind, to brush along his arm as it was doing and he couldn't think about anything else than this distracting creature that was _his_ , for whom he'd given up everything he'd known since everything he'd known had been taken from him all those years ago...

"Billy?"

Her soft inquiry made him pause. Perhaps he was striding too fast again. He blinked down at her. "Yeah."

"You look so angry."

"Angry?" he said, surprising himself with a laugh. "I was...just thinking."

"About what?"

Brown eyes, so ingenuous, so free from guile. He hadn't expected her to ask so he didn't know what to say. _About how to keep you safe here? About how to get you away from here? About what the fuck am I doing, right now, parading you down a beach swarming with drunk pirates?_

"Billy," she prompted.

He couldn't say any of that. It would only confirm he was angry—or worried—and he wanted her to protect her from that too, protect her from his own feelings.

He smiled. "Nothing. Let's keep going. Or are you tired?"

"No," she said, inhaling, and his eyes were drawn to the rise and fall of her chest, and he realized he wasn't any better than any of them, was he? The girl just wanted some fresh air and here he was acting like some kind of damn jealous prisonkeeper, trying to rush her back to the house where no one else could look at her but him. Well, that was what he wanted, wasn't it?

He felt repelled by the knowledge.

"I'm not tired, but it is a little warm out here," Abigail said, shading her eyes, and then fanning herself.

"You're going to get sun-sick, middle of the day like this." Billy gestured at her uncovered head. "We should go find you something to drink."

He had his doubts about bringing her back to the tavern (though other than being accosted by his shipmates nothing particularly off-putting had occurred the first time), but it was closest to their current location on the beach. Once there, he found them a seat near the door almost completely obscured by a massive plant. He wasn't hiding, exactly. It just seemed prudent to avoid attention. Then again, after they'd been strolling down the bay together in bright daylight, perhaps it was a bit late for worrying about that. When a server came by he ordered a larger than usual quantity of rum for himself, ale for Abigail (which he gestured that he wanted watered down and hoped the girl understood).

"I've been thinking," Abigail said, earnestly, once he returned his attention to her, "that I should like to work—to help—in some way, Billy. If I could be earning—however small a sum—I should feel much less a burden to you."

He stared at her, noting how serious was her expression, how much sense the statement seemed to make—to her, anyway, whereas for his part he couldn't figure what in hell he was supposed to say in response, other than to ask what she thought she could possibly do on Nassau to earn money. At last he said, running the heel of his hand along his forehead, "I told you before you didn't have to worry about that."

"I remember," she said. "It's not that I have doubts about you providing for me, truly. It is for my own sake—to feel..." She looked up for a moment above them, then met his gaze again, "purposeful."

Their drinks came and he snagged his off the tray and took a long quick swallow for some clarity (not that the stuff had ever brought it before which was why he generally stayed away from imbibing, but now seemed like a fine time to indulge).

Abigail sipped with considerably more delicacy at hers, eyeing him over the edge of it. "You don't seem to approve?"

"I just have no—" He gestured with the drink in hand, trying to find words for what he was thinking. "Idea what you think you could _do._ "

Her eyes grew big, swelling with hurt, and her gaze faltered and fell.

 _Dammit, Billy. Those may have been words you found, but they weren't the right ones_. "I don't mean that. You weren't brought up to work."

"You weren't brought up to be a pirate," she answered, so softly that it could hardly be considered a retort.

He drained his glass, swallowing the liquid fire, welcoming the almost punishing burn, and said, "I guess that's true."

"So people can...learn how to do things, if they have to."

"You _don't_ have to. Just do what you've been doing. At home." It galled him a bit to use that word. It wasn't really home to him, maybe it would be someday but it was still just a roof on solid ground at the moment, and the sea...dammit, he wouldn't think about the sea.

Abigail's face told him he wasn't really doing any better in this conversation. He glanced around in vain for the serving girl, saw someone approaching the table, and was relieved for the two heartbeats it took to realize it wasn't a refill on the way, but a former shipmate—again—not that it was so unusual to run into them here, but really, two visits in a row, and he wasn't in the mood.

"Billy!" He was the unwilling recipient of a thunderous shoulder clap. "Heard felicitations was in order!"

He knew his smile was probably more of a pained grimace if it reflected how he was actually feeling. Abigail's smile was tremulous. He appreciated it though, her effort to be polite.

"Let me buy you another drink then eh? Now you've got a wife to look after, and what with no wages coming in and all?"

He could have gotten irritated—he _was_ irritated—but long habit of defusing such potentially incendiary comments among crewmembers made him say, "Except I've been putting it by, haven't I, instead of spending it alongside you lot every night ashore."

This earned a good-natured laugh because it was true, money came and went with equal speed with most of the ship's crews and Flint's men had been no different in that respect. Billy stared across the table at Abigail, trying to think how to make the lingering hurt leave her eyes.

"Right, then I'll leave you to it. Best wishes, Missus Bones." A jaunty bow and his erstwhile companion was off.

Now here was the server, filling his glass—Abigail's was still largely untouched since her initial taste—but he didn't reach for it right away this time, still attempting to read her face.

"If you say I shouldn't worry," she said, "then I will try not to."

He almost said he'd do the work of two men for half the pay, ashore, if it came to that, but sensed she didn't need the actual assurance, not really. She trusted him, he'd known that for a while. That in itself was intimidating in its own way, more than doubt.

He wondered, not for the first time, what kind of expression Lord Ashe's face might have taken if he'd been alive to see his daughter's choice.

He reached across the table for Abigail's hand. "Do you want to stay and eat, or should we get out of here?"

She nodded, then clarified, "Let's stay a little."

Giving her hand a squeeze in accord, Billy signaled for food, then leaned back and tried again to relax. He was weary enough—sleep the previous night had been scattered, with his body still accustomed to the regular shifts between active duty and rests—but here in public, as out on the beach, the last thing he wanted to appear was unwary. He knew he'd gained a reputation among the crew for being unreasonably attentive to detail, but too often not doing so proved to have devastating consequences.

And he was damned if Abigail was ever going to suffer as a result of him not paying sufficient attention to their surroundings.

That's what he would have told her father, certainly. Though Billy, now he considered it, would have had a few choice words to give the man himself, like asking him why the fuck hadn't he sent his daughter somewhere safe before Charlestown fell completely to shit. Anyone could have run up those stairs, just like he had, and broke open that door to see Abigail sitting at the pianoforte...the memory made his stomach turn in the way of suffering through a ship-killer.

He brought himself back to the present, where a plate of roasted pork had been set down in front of them, and Abigail had no qualms about getting started. She confessed that she hadn't been able to eat that morning. "I was so nervous," she said, with adorable frankness.

"Were you?" He picked up a glistening length of rib and detached meat from it.

"Weren't _you_?" She stopped chewing, indignantly.

"Maybe when I thought you were going to change your mind."

Abigail paused, gave a delicate wipe to the corner of her mouth and smiled a little, cautiously. "Did you think that?"

"Thought you'd come to your senses in time."

"I was completely in my right mind. It was just so hot...and I hadn't slept very well...and I didn't like to be watched, when we...At—at the end."

"When we kissed," he said, deliberately, wanting to see if she would look at him, but she was looking around vainly at anything else. He was unable to help a grin. "We could try that again, later, when no one's around to watch, you know."

"Billy," she murmured, giving him just the quickest of glances—he knew she didn't mean it tempting but it really was, his stomach danced again (but this time in a good way)—before dropping her lashes.

And then he had to quell the urge to toss some coins on the table and hurry them out of there because for a moment it didn't seem as if she'd be at all averse to exploring some of the benefits of their married state, but he told himself not to be an ass, she wasn't flirting, she was actually, legitimately, shy, and this wasn't going to be the way their relationship began, with him forcing something she wasn't ready for.

He would, however, finish his drink.


End file.
